Recuerdo que cuando era una niña solía admirarlo como si fuera un súper héroe genial. La manera amorosa en que me cuidó durante mi recuperación de la enfermedad del cáncer ... siempre me traía caramelos, flores del jardín y lindas tarjetas hechas en papel de construcción con forma de corazón para hacerme sonreír. También recuerdo que durante muchos años solía llevar mi mochila pesada de la escuela, e incluso me llevaba en sus hombros durante el camino a la escuela todas las tardes, porque era una niña frágil recuperándose del cáncer. Además, recuerdo la manera en que me protegia de otros niños en la escuela que se burlaban de mí cuando perdí por completo mi cabello debido a tratamientos contra el cáncer, o si un niño se portaba mal conmigo de alguna manera. Recuerdo quererle tanto y haberme sentido tan agradecida por tener a alguien que me amaba y protegia de todo y de todos. No recuerdo exactamente cómo o cuándo comenzó, pero de repente comenzó a hacerme sentir que tenía que pagarle por todas estas cosas hermosas que hizo por mí. Nunca pensé que mi superhéroe se convertiría en un depredador sexual ...

Al principio pensé que era un juego de médicos y pacientes entre hermano y hermana, pero a medida que pasaba el tiempo, el esperaba cada vez más de mí. Y aunque no tenía idea de lo que realmente estaba sucediendo, la forma en que tocaba mi cuerpo, o me pedía que tocara el suyo, no se sentía correcto. Entonces, con el tiempo, le expresé gentilmente que ya no me deseaba continuar con este tipo de juegos. Fue entonces cuando comenzó a hacerme creer que él me había elegido selectivamente porque era una niña muy especial. Por lo tanto, tenía que estar agradecida porque me estaba enseñando cómo convertirme en la mejor novia para un futuro, y para lograr eso teníamos que practicar constantemente.

También constantemente me recordaba lo importante que era para nosotros mantener esto en secreto, y lo triste y decepcionado que estaría si yo lo dijera a alguien. Entonces, en mi inocente mente, sostuve nuestro preciado secreto, y le agradecí por elegirme a MI, por enseñarme a MI. De hecho, me sentí especial por ser LA SELECCIONADA para un papel tan importante en el futuro de mi vida. Él me adoraba, así que ¿cómo podía tener dudas sobre lo que él pensaba que era bueno para mí?

Recuerdo vívidamente el dolor emocional que experimenté y cuantas veces quise gritar pidiendo ayuda, pero mi cuerpo se adormecía aterrorizado de las consecuencias de la desobediencia. Rezaba para que todo terminase pronto y para que nunca me lo pidiera nuevamente. A menudo me escondía en mi cama debajo de las sábanas y lloraba hasta quedarme dormida. Deseaba tanto que todo esto detuviera que constantemente pensaba en estrategias para escapar, pero tenía demasiado miedo de que mis padres le creyeran a él sobre mí. Además, estaba demasiado avergonzada de lo que mis padres pensarían de mí. Especialmente porque mis padres me enseñaron a siempre obedecer a mi hermano mayor cuando ellos salían de la casa y lo dejaban a él a cargo. El tomo anos adiestrándome para convertirme en su compañera secreta e incluso me presionó para que trajera a la casa a otras niñas para que jugaran con él. Por lo tanto, mis esperanzas de escapar de esta larga pesadilla fueron tenues hasta que un día finalmente rompí mi silencio y le conté a mi madre que mi hermano había estado abusando sexualmente de mí durante muchos años.

Afortunadamente, mis padres me creyeron, me protegieron, me dijeron cuánto me amaban y dejaron en claro que no era mi culpa. Años de terapia para tratar el trastorno de estrés postraumático que sufrí (TEPT) y el apoyo de mis padres me permitieron enfrentar este horrible trauma infantil que cambió mi vida para siempre. A pesar del hecho de que la pureza y la alegría de mi infancia fueron robadas y que todo mi desarrollo femenino fue alterado, siento que la experiencia me hizo una guerrera más fuerte.

Si la terapia me ayudó enormemente, compartir mi historia y usarla como un ejemplo de esperanza y empoderamiento ha sido fundamental para mi proceso de recuperación. De hecho, ayudar a otros se ha convertido en mi pasión y carrera profesional.

Personalmente, he experimentado los impactos psicológicos de mi traumatic pasad ... desde la baja autoestima mientras crecía hasta problemas de pareja y otros traumas de la adultez. Sin embargo, durante mi camino de recuperación personal, me convertí en psicóloga y educadora de la sexualidad humana y ahora dedico mi vida a trabajar directamente con sobrevivientes para ayudarles a superar la violencia doméstica y sexual. Proporciono apoyo individual y grupal y un lugar seguro para que puedan venir en busca de ayuda. También soy un miembro orgulloso del comité de conciencia pública eNOugh y Helpmate.

Tuve la suerte de poder transformar mi trauma en una herramienta para ayudar a otras mujeres abusadas sexualmente a superar sus problemas relacionados con PTSD, a amarse de nuevo y a crear relaciones positivas y saludables con futuros buenos compañeros.

El abuso sexual es real y puede suceder en cualquier familia. El abuso sexual infantil y el incesto son mucho más comunes de lo que las personas piensan. Por lo tanto, es imprescindible educar a las familias sobre la prevención de esta tragedia que altera la vida de muchos. Esencialmente, tener un canal de comunicación abierto y saludable con sus hijos sobre este tema tan delicado podría ser la herramienta de prevención más poderosa que podemos utilizar para detener el abuso sexual. Es importante buscar signos sutiles de abuso sexual, como por ejemplo cambios repentinos en el comportamiento de un niño, obtener malas calificaciones, perder el apetito, orinarse en la cama inesperadamente, evitar los baños o temor a la hora de dormir. Por lo general, los niños dicen la verdad, por lo que es crucial que los padres escuchen y realicen su propio trabajo investigativo para confirmar la historia antes de asumir que el niño está mintiendo.

Una parte fundamental del proceso de curación de un sobreviviente es tomar el valor para decir la verdad y poner fin al silencio. Es por eso que hoy deseo compartir la historia de mi infancia con ustedes con la esperanza de evitar que otros niños experimenten lo que yo viví cuando era niña.

Ya no me veo como una víctima! Soy una sobreviviente que puede hacer una diferencia en las vidas de otros sobrevivientes porque TODAVÍA ESTOY DE PIE y continuaré empoderando a otros a hacer lo mismo. ¡Juntos, podemos crear conciencia y hacer un alto a la violencia doméstica y sexual!

—Ileana

It was a balmy June evening in Manhattan. Such a lovely night, the kind of night that sweeps you up in it. A New York night. My best friend had just married her beloved in an old church we'd all arrived at in limousines earlier in the evening, all of us wearing the flowing silk of a single designer, Morgan LeFay, all the bridesmaids in navy blue, the bride in this soft flowing white. The sky a stunning blue as we entered the church and a starlit reflection of the city as we left the reception hall where every flower and crystal glass glistened with joy and delight. Magic. All the details: the tiny fairy lights in the brickwork of the walls, the scallops wrapped in bacon and pierced with toothpicks, arugula with a honeyed dressing I may never savor again so perfectly was it made. My friend had married rich, and this wedding did nothing to hide that fact.

The ceremony itself had been hell. Wearing four-inch copper heals to a party is one thing, wearing them to stand still through a series of soon-to-be-spouses reading Pablo Neruda poems to one another after an already lengthy merging of various religious traditions (he is Sepphardic, she more pagan than Episcopal but both lines were well represented). My feet burned, every bone screaming with every beautiful word of their never-ending vows.

"You walked so poised and elegantly, I thought you might be moving along on wheels," said the handsome writer-professor I was introduced to by a mutual friend. Newly fit with hearing aids, I had him repeat it, and then followed a challenging conversation in lip-reading. "Let's go somewhere where it's quieter," he suggested.

I love New York in short visits. I never considered living there, but every time I'd gone, my two nights of visiting had been these rolling unfoldings of wonderful conversation with new friends. I always felt the city had the power to welcome its visitors not only with bright lights and creative restaurants. For me, it had this mystical dimension. I'd have experiences there that were transformative as long as I went along with the paths it laid out for me. Following them, I'd been led to recording studios at three a.m. with talented artists and laid down tracks I didn't know I could sing so well. I'd been invited to house-sit a friend's friend's Chelsea penthouse for a week when I didn't have anything else to do. I'd sat next to music legends at concerts put on by other music legends. Each time I'd been to New York, magic had happened.

"That sounds great," I said, shouting over the music even though my new acquaintance had perfect hearing.

Here was New York being wonderful again.

He was an English Professor at an esteemed university. As an English teacher at a boarding school for teenage boys, I was delighted to be able to move beyond excerpts of great works and discuss entire novels, entire epochs. As a single mother of a four-year old, I was excited to be out in the world, awake after ten. We sat in a modern and very stylish concrete restaurant booth softened with brightly colored and intricately textured cushions. Tea lights simmered in arrangements of rice on tiny plates. In the alcove of our privacy we chatted on about books and teaching. We didn't touch. We didn't move closer. I drank a glass of wine, he too. It didn't feel like a romance. It felt like two friends-of-friends becoming friends on a beautiful June night in Manhattan.

"Why don't you come upstairs."

I hesitated in the taxi we'd shared. "I'm not interested in having sex." I was blunt.

"I'm not talking about sex. I just want to talk to you more," he said. "You're a single mother. I'm not a monster."

I saw the eyes of the driver in the rearview mirror. I don't know why I looked at them.

I didn't want the night to end either. I went up. We walked up the staircase, wooden, to the top floor. He had the penthouse, and past the kitchen and a small seating area he had a rooftop garden with a view of the harbor and the sky. A potted plant housed a geranium. A chaise lounge welcomed me into it as he handed me a glass of wine then sat in a chair facing. The conversation continued. He knew much more than I did about German literature. I knew much more about American and English poetry. There were gaps to fill.

When he left the garden and returned with more wine I declined. He then wiped his nose and asked if I wanted to do some drugs with him. This I also declined, but I noted he'd already partaken. I also felt a shift in the night. I said it was time for me to go. He moved closer, sat next to me on the chaise. He touched me. Kissed me. I declined this as well. It was just wasn't that kind of feeling for me. I wasn't romantically charged by him or our conversation. I liked the night. When I stood to go he persisted. He said the words that let me know I wasn't with someone I should be with:

"Come on. You're a bridesmaid. Of course you want to be f*****d."

All my life, I'd been blessed by the presence of gentlemen. I had once felt threatened on a train in Italy and had made an escape, but that was one night out of thousands of nights. I'd had men ask, and I'd declined. I myself had asked and been declined. I'd danced wildly on islands in Greece and been able to end an evening with a proper kiss. I'd roamed the world's cities with male companions who saw me safely home. This night, though, I had gone into the home of the very thing he'd said he wasn't. A monster. He argued with me. Pestered me. Blocked my attempt to leave. I set my priority: to make it to the post-wedding-day luncheon intact then home to see my daughter. I could have fought and punched and kicked, but he would have won, and I'd have been beaten. I could have run, but we'd climbed many flights and falling down them in an attempt to escape would have rendered me even more vulnerable. This way, I thought as I planned my acquiescence, I can pretend it did not happen and go back to life the way it was before I got out of the cab. I planned my own dissociation. I'm smart, I assured myself. My mind can get me through this. I even got him to wear a condom.

Looking back, I can see how my love for life and trust in the universe both created this situation and prepared me for my recovery from it. Recovery takes love and passion, vulnerability and trust. My approach to life had always been comprised of these; they are skills I'd learned and skills I now had to master.

The recovery process took years. I was wrong about my mind being able to handle "this." No matter how many books I'd read, how smart I was, this experience affected a part of me that I didn't know how to mend: my soul. How do you heal a soul? The answer I'd always had was poetry. Poetry had healed me all my life, yet in the wake of this event, I couldn't write for six months, nothing personal at least. I could write enough to keep my job as a school teacher: comments on student papers, emails to parents. When I turned the pen on myself though to open the story, to do what I knew I had to do in order to heal, the words were not there. I drew a lot—more than fifty charcoal drawings of that damned geranium in a flower pot on the edge of the penthouse railing. I drew darkness ceaselessly and found it comforting. Charcoal was my world. It was what I saw.

I devoted a zebra-print rug to my grieving. Lying on that rug, I gave myself permission to cry for however long I needed to when my daughter was at school or at my mother's. It was my weeping place. From there I launched my calls to Our Voice hotline counselors. I cried to them. I cried until I could tell. They never forced me to tell. Eventually I could tell. Our Voice was the only presence that would listen to my silence. This was the greatest gift.

I had needed to isolate the event for a time before I could even imagine it was part of the whole picture of my life. One crisis counselor worked with me for the first four months, and then I moved my broken spirit to my usual therapist's office. My therapist and I worked deeply and deftly. Weekly for months. I continued to teach my students and mother my child all while feeling my soul was separated from me, drifting, alienated, lost, alone. When my child slept, I turned to the page to write. I wrote anything; I even re-wrote things that already were written: psalms, prayers, the Dead Sea Scrolls. Every word seemed to be a stitch between me and what was missing, the rest of me, my very essence. Writing took the place of dreaming. Writing took the place of sleep. For two years.

If I kept writing, I assured myself, my soul would hear my words and return.

I found a worldview, with the help of my therapist, I could work with in Alchemy. It was the only worldview that allowed me to be entirely broken and entirely alien to myself while also providing a path for going deeper into the darkness as opposed to taking a short cut to light. It also connected to all the world's religions, something I also needed—all the gods, all the angels, all the prayers. I needed wholeness. After reading as many sacred texts I had awareness of, one afternoon I started to write my poems again. I drove my daughter to my mother's house and told her the poems had come. I wrote more than a hundred in three days, eating and sleeping minimally. That collection became my first book and led to a new job that opened the door to the wonderful job I have now: helping others write and find themselves.

There was a time I didn't think I'd ever be "me" again. I am very much myself, though. I have an even stronger love for the world and still welcome long conversations with new friends, male and female. The only thing that changed in the end is my daughter attended martial arts classes and can fight off a roomful of boys blindfolded.

I was married for decades to my high school sweetheart. He spent several years working in a branch of law enforcement before becoming a pastor. The first few years of our marriage were like a long honeymoon. But things began to change during my second pregnancy. After that child died our marriage became increasingly difficult. Many years of marriage counseling with several different counselors did not change his behavior. Over the next several years he became controlling with the money and he often complained that I didn't work enough. He made more money than I did so he was allowed to spend more. He also complained about the house not being clean enough.. Once he yelled at me and told me everything we had was his. I looked around at our furniture and household items, most of which were passed down from my family. At times he would tell me he wanted a divorce. Thankfully, he did not have his outbursts in front of the children. Occasionally he would keep me awake until late at night and sometimes wake me in the middle of the night, even though he knew I needed 8 hours of sleep. The unrealistic expectations were high and unrelenting. I often thought of him as having a Jekyll-Hyde personality and wondered which side of his mouth he was speaking out of. After we had been married several years he had an affair and wanted to leave me and our children.

I was desperate to keep our marriage together for the sake of our children; somehow we made it through and launched them into adulthood. But he was so hard to live with and there were times I wished one of us would die to end the marriage. I wasn't homicidal or suicidal; I just wanted the pain to end. I'm a Christian and at that point in time I believed the only biblical grounds for divorce was adultery. I hung in there, but never in my wildest imagination would I have thought things would have turned out the way they did.

Strangely enough, our marriage improved and we had a few good years together that included traveling, enjoying grandchildren, enjoying outdoor activities, and regular date nights. I often thanked the Lord that we had been able to stay together for the sake of our children and grandchildren. However, there was a major turning point a few years ago when we were getting ready for church and had a minor disagreement. All of a sudden he was in my face yelling at me, throwing things, beating on the countertop. He had the most evil look in his eyes I have ever seen on anyone; it was like looking at the devil himself. I thought he was going to hit me and I was terrified. He had never done anything like this before. Over the next few days he said some very bizarre things to try to make me think I was crazy. One of the things he told me made me realize he had been trying to emotionally destroy me during most of our marriage. I thought his violent outburst was just the tip of the iceberg and there was more to come. I believed that if he exploded again he would hit me, and I knew he could hurt me. I knew that nothing existed that could make me ever feel safe being alone with him again. I became increasingly frightened and left him a few days later, not telling him, anyone in the church, or my children. A friend helped me find a safe place to stay.

A few weeks after I left my ex-husband, I met with a counselor at the domestic violence agency in the community where I lived. The information she gave me saved my life; the emotional support she gave me saved my mind; she often told me she was praying for me and that soothed my spirit. She gave me information about typical behaviors of abusers after the woman leaves; I would see some of those behaviors in his subsequent emails. She warned me that when a victim leaves an abusive relationship she is at a greater risk for being killed by her partner. Over the next several days, weeks and months my ex-husband's abuse intensified. He stalked me and tried to lure me into his presence several times. Eventually I broke off all contact with him because in every communication to me he was manipulating, intimidating, lying and/or threatening. He told people in his church, other pastors that he met with, our children, and extended family that I was mentally ill.

The Bible emphasizes that husbands are to love, care for, and respect their wives. There is no biblical excuse for a husband's violent or abusive behavior toward his wife:

Ephesians 5:25     Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.
Ephesians 5:26     In this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies.
Ephesians 5:33     However, each one of you also must love his wife as he loves himself. . .

My ex-husband is not who I thought he was and I didn't have the marriage I thought I had. I learned that it was not my leaving that broke up my marriage; it was his abuse that violated our marriage vows. As harrowing and terrifying as everything was, I will tell you that God is faithful. From the moment my marriage blew apart in my face, the Lord Jesus took me by the hand and comforted and shielded and protected and provided for me. My Bible study notes from a few months ago put it this way: "Christians are not promised life without suffering, but the certainty of God's provision and protection provides confidence in a safe haven. He is faithful to His promises. If you belong to Him, you will find security in God in even the most distressing circumstances."

Proverbs 18:10     The name of the LORD is a strong tower; the righteous run to it and are safe.

Not easily broken

I can't tell you when the violence started, or even if I was born. But I can tell you about the screams from my mother, the bruises on her body, the broken furniture and the glass on the floor. My mother was a victim of domestic violence for over 20 years. I can't understand how anyone could hurt someone so loving and caring. She was a beautiful person with a heart of gold. She would do anything to help others, but she was unable to help herself. My father threatened her after my oldest sister was born. He told her that if she ever left him that he would kill the baby. My mother said that threat kept her in that marriage for many years. One night during an ice storm my father attacked my mother in front of my sister and me. We did not know he was mad and could not understand why or what was happening. He punched her in the face as we were preparing for bed. My sister and I put ourselves in the middle of this fight, like we did many times before. He backed off from her and then left the house. We helped our mother put her glasses back together and sat with her. Telling her how much we loved her and that she was so wonderful to us. We also told her that she needed to leave our father.

My father did not discriminate when it came to being violent. I have been punched a number of times and kicked in my head once. I believe this kick is what caused my inner ear to be broken. My father had held my mother hostage by gun point years before and he had pulled a gun on my oldest sister. He was an angry man, who did not care about love, but control. He always tried to make himself the victim. He would tell her if she loved him better, or if she never had kids then they would not fight. He would also tell her that she was worthless, a horrible mother and criticized everything she did.

When my sister went away to college that left just me to fight for my mother. The violence between he and I increased as did the violence between him and my mother. Because my sister and I would now protect our mother he started to only attack her when we were not at home. However, my mother had been talking to her doctor, family and friends about what was happening. The plan that had been in the works for 4 years was now about to be put into action.

One day my mother handed me a black bag and told me to take the things I wanted and she told me that we were leaving. I could not understand what she was saying because it felt like a dream. She was saying something that I only dreamed that she would say. My emotions were very mixed. Yes! We are leaving. No! Where are we going? I will leave my friends and school! Yes! We would be free. No! I am afraid that he will hurt all of us. We got in my mother's old Toyota Corolla and my little brother and sister were asleep in the backseat. We traveled from Mississippi to Atlanta GA in the middle of the night. I had to stay up so that my mom would not fall asleep. We cried, we laughed, we cried and we both were terrified of what was going to happen next. We were homeless! But we were together.

I imagined that this is what it felt like when a person was released from prison. You're not sure how the world works without a system standing on your back. We stayed in Atlanta for 2 days before traveling to Asheville NC. In Asheville there was a shelter called Helpmate. The thought of a shelter scared me. But it was not like what you saw on TV. It was a beautiful old house, with people just like me. I was not a black sheep with a dark past. I was a free butterfly with a new future.

Some might ask why did she stay so long, why didn't she leave or fight back. But the question should be why did he hurt her and her children?! No one asks to be abused, nor do they enjoy watching their children being hurt. But when an abuser has kept some of his threats as promised, then you believe they will kill you as many have done in the past.

I am lucky that domestic violence did not end my life. We survived and thrived because of family, friends, a family doctor and people who cared. I am not a statistic but a wife, mother and friend who broke the cycle of domestic violence. I am now an advocate for survivors and helping others break that cycle.

I am not a statistic, I am a thriving 18 year old. And I am breaking the cycle.

The violence started long before I was even able to remember. My father was addicted to many drugs, but his pick was narcotic pain medicine. Sure, he had everything right? A new house, two new cars, superintendent at a very respected job and a beautiful family of four before the age of twenty-one. What else did he need? Something else to top it off some say. My life starts out picture perfect, but quickly goes downhill from there.

It started out with occasional shoving and pushing, only very quickly moving to much harder forms of abuse. My family grew up in a small town where poverty levels were rising rapidly. The drug use started happening more and more and lights were beginning to get cut off, bills were just not being met. The more my father used, the more abuse my mother received. When I was in grade school, I never knew how to handle my father. He became diagnosed with bipolar disorder and refused to take his medicine. My father forced my mom to quit her job, and this is when the worst part started. Every chance my dad couldn't get his hands on drugs, he put his hands on my mom. Till this day I can remember my father becoming so angry at my mom that he went to leave and my mom walked outside to make sure he hadn't taken what money we had left. My father got in his truck and started to pull off, while my mom was trying to make sure she had money. I went running outside because I was always afraid my father was going to kill my mother. Screaming at the top of my lungs "Mom come inside please, dad is gonna hurt you…please!" I looked up and couldn't believe what I saw...

My father had ran mom over with his truck. I didn't know what to do, I screamed for my brother to grab my pink robe (he was in the shower) and hurry! I was crying so hard I couldn't stop. He then proceeds to put the truck in park and drag my mom from underneath the truck all the way up the porch steps by the hair on her head. At this point I'm yelling at my father to stop please, every time he would do this kind of stuff both my brother and I would beg him to stop and that we promised to always be good kids. Of course this never stopped him, it just angered him more. This is the same night I saw a gun drawn to my beautiful mothers head.

This type of abuse went on for many more years. We ended up moving to Georgia after we lost our house. Here, my father did not allow my mom to work, have a cell phone or even leave the house most of the time. We witnessed more abuse, from her head being smacked on steering wheels to being smothered and the abuse only continued to grow. My father never physically touched me, however he hurt me through hurting my mom and brother.

The day my mother finally decided to leave was the best day of my life. We finally had escaped death and began to work on our healing process. No one in the family knew what we were experiencing. But, my mom broke free that night and called my aunt. We escaped from Georgia and came back to North Carolina.

Now today, I am a thriving 18 year old. In the fall, I will be the first one in my family to attend college, graduating with high honors and I am breaking the cycle. All my credit goes to my beautiful mother, who I knew was the stable parent. She never failed to keep her word, provide for my brother and me and constantly keep a smile on my face no matter what. I am blessed that I am able to sit down with my family and not have to worry liked I used to. So remember never to be ashamed of your story, because it is an inspiration to others. And also, you may feel weak, but within you is the strength to leave, within you is the strength to overcome and you will be able to achieve all that you deserve.

My name is Sara. I'm from Colorado. I am outgoing, college educated. I worked in Advertising. I owned my own home and a car. I had two cats and a dog. I am a survivor of domestic violence.

I met him online. He was handsome, smart, creative. He was charismatic and funny. We had a ton of things in common, including both having golden retrievers. We clicked right away and so did our dogs. An instant family. I joked our third date lasted five days. I don't believe we were ever apart after that.

The first incident of violence occurred two months into our relationship. We had been at my house for most of the holidays. Over New Year's we had been drinking heavily and he introduced me to harder drugs. We had been up for 3 days when he began to act strange: erratic, angry, not making sense. I asked him to leave. He became violent. I managed get away from him and ran out the door as police were coming in. I was in my pajamas, no shoes, broken glasses and bleeding. I remember sitting in the snow on the sidewalk a few houses down, watching. Police kept showing up. I heard stuff breaking and yelling inside my house. It took 20 officers but eventually he was arrested.

I was scared, confused and overwhelmed. I didn't understand what had just happened and I didn't know what to do. I felt bad that he was arrested, that I had made a bad decision. I also had his dog, his car and his wallet... instead of the end it became the beginning...

After the arrest he not only apologized but sought help. He went out of state for a 30 day treatment program. When he returned we were more enmeshed than ever. We planned on getting married. He began taking charge of my house, finances, major and minor decisions. I mistook his control for caring and his possessiveness for love. I supported him in court believing that if they just let it go and he could move past it, we would be fine.

I loved him. He was everything I had ever wanted. I truly thought he was the best thing that ever happened to me. That he was the one. We were a family and I desperately wanted a family. I was isolated and alone. I was vulnerable and wanted to be taken care of. I really thought that if we could make it through this rough patch it would be happily ever after.

Those times were short lived. Drugs and alcohol continued to play an increasing role in our relationship. His possessiveness and control intensified as did his violence. By the time I realized he wasn't going to change I was trapped. He was my world. He had control over everything and monitored my every move. I didn't even have a key to the house I owned.

There are no words for what I experienced at the hands of my abuser. The physical and sexual violence I endured was not only horrific but unceasing. He had a location tracker in my phone and a keystroke program on my computer. After a week in jail, he spent the next several months making a color-coded spreadsheet of every hour of every day he was gone and grafted all calls, texts, emails etc. My world had become a house of horrors ruled by a madman and I knew I was going to die.

I also lived in fear for my animals. More than just collateral damage, they were often used to manipulate and control me. He would push, shove, yell at them. When he would leave he would take my dog. He knew my fear of him alone with her was enough to keep me submissive. If, when I was allowed to leave my house, I veered from his instructions he would begin calling/texting threatening to kill my animals. Microwaving my cat was a frequent line, sometimes, with a picture of my cat inside the microwave.

During this time he accrued multiple assault charges, all felonies, and numerous violations of restraining orders and probation violations. It only intensified his violence. At one point he was jailed for 90 days. We were no longer together but that didn't mean much. He wrote long creepy letters. Called frequently. Gave my address and other information to cell mates, promising them money and favors for "checking on me." Within a day of his release he broke in and spent the next 72 hours keeping me locked in my bedroom until he was arrested. Events like this happened over and over.

There was no escape. Broken and out of options I fled in the middle of the night. I took both dogs, my cats and a suitcase. I checked into a cheap motel. I paid cash and gave a fake name. Three days later the phone in the room rang. A voice said, "He wants his dog back. If you think a Motel 6 in Salt Lake City will keep you safe, you're wrong." I don't know how he found me. I called my parents. We had been estranged but I was without resources in a city I didn't know and once again, in danger. They said if I checked myself into rehab they would get my pets. I knew I was an addict but I did not go to rehab to get sober. I went because they promised me I would be safe. They said that no one, not even him would be able to find me-and that felt like a miracle.

After leaving my animals at a shelter, I left all my electronics in Utah and went to rehab. I have never accessed that email address or been on social media since. That was the last time I received any contact from him as well.

After rehab, I moved in with my parents, who had been taking care of my animals. Their support saved my life and created the foundation for my healing. I had left everything behind and was starting my life from scratch. The love and support of my family, my pets and the recovery community got me out of crisis but I still needed help. I had nightmares and would scream in my sleep. Loud noises, yelling, a phone ringing would make me cower. I couldn't look people in the eye and I barely spoke. I was afraid of everything and everyone. I called the Helpmate hotline. I remember saying something like, "I don't know if you can help me. I don't know if I'm calling the right place. I don't know what I need but I don't know who to call and I think I need help." The voice on the other line said, and I will never forget it, "You called the right place. Let's talk for a minute. Can I ask you a question Sara? Are you safe?" In all that time, throughout the years of my abuse, no one had ever asked me that question and I had never had to stop and think about the answer. I thought I was safe, it seemed like I was safe, but I didn't feel safe. I said that though choked sobs to the voice on the other end of the phone and I cried. I cried and I cried and then I cried some more. She let me and that call changed my life. I met a counselor, went to education classes, individual therapy, a support group. They helped me get in the Address Confidentiality Program, link up with outside services for medical care, mental health care, disability benefits.

I am so grateful to Helpmate and Buncombe County. Some would say that they gave me my life back but my life today is nothing like my life before. I say they have given me a new life: a place where I feel safe, a home, a community, a family. I have peace and serenity and a voice. I came here as a handful of broken pieces and through this journey of healing, like a mosaic, I have been rearranged and the form that emerges is a survivor. A survivor full of hope.

My name is Katherine. I am your friend. I am your neighbor. I am your mother. I am your sister. I am your daughter. I am your child's teacher. I am your doctor. I am the homeless woman on the corner. I am the CEO. I am the cashier at the grocery store. I am YOU, but I am also a victim of domestic violence.

My ex-husband and I were together for 26 years and married for almost 24 when we divorced. We have 3 children, now young adults. Our apparent fairy tale life vanished and the nightmare began about 10 years ago. He was on the downhill slide to 50, feeling less virile and energetic when he began to abuse prescription drugs and alcohol. His behavior became erratic and explosive, his words and voice boomed and slashed like a ferocious storm. His rage was verbal and physical, only constant in its unpredictability. I don't know how it happened or why, but suddenly he was tracking my phone, monitoring my daily activities. He followed me. Watched me. His obsessive, controlling behavior made me feel desperate, trapped and constantly on edge. I cannot even count the times he apologized, sent flowers or gifts, and wrote lengthy love notes and poems after leaving me shell shocked and bleeding. Empty promises to seek help only furthered his understanding of how to navigate the legal system and honed his acting abilities when he was confronted by others.

I thought my story was shocking, uncommon and horrific. But I have learned by spending time within this community that it is ordinary and not as terrifying as the stories of other survivors. I am an intelligent, educated, and independent woman. Would it shock you to know that coping with trauma is my field of expertise when you ask why I didn't recognize the signs? Would you be surprised to learn that over the last 10 years I have worked to become a martial arts instructor in reality based combat when you wonder why I didn't defend myself? Nothing I knew prepared me for the reality I faced as my life fell apart under the constant threat that is domestic violence. This is the truth as I have lived it….

Existing in the midst of a storm that domestic violence conjures is stressful enough, but life changed irrevocably for me and my family when I was hit by a car in 2013. I suffered multiple serious injuries, the most debilitating of which was a traumatic brain injury. I experienced cognitive amnesia, simply, loss of my memory once my brain had processed too much during the day. My husband testified during my accident lawsuit that he could predict when I would suffer these episodes just by observing my physical demeanor. It was at this time that he began to rape me. I was injured and vulnerable and in his need for control, he preyed on me. He scoffed at my shock and horror every morning after when I woke up bruised and bloody. He told me, "If you put me in jail, no one will support you or pay your doctor's bills. It will be your fault if the kids grow up without a father. I will kill myself if you say you will leave me"

As I looked into his eyes, I didn't know if I saw steely resolve or the glint of malicious manipulation. My 3 children were right across the hallway. I could hardly breathe through my panic and desperation to make this stop. I knew that none of us would ever get that sound, that smell, that sight, or that betrayal out of our minds. All of a sudden it wasn't just me managing violence and rape. I knew that no matter how I placated him, no matter what promises he made, no matter how I tried to shield my children, it would no longer be enough.

I knew I needed help but the county I lived in at that time had few resources for a woman my age who was a victim of intimate partner rape. Crushing despair gripped me as my voice was ignored and no help was offered. Blame and shame were heaped on me everywhere I turned. Excuses for HIS behavior and how I could change was the advice most freely dispensed. I felt discouraged, helpless, hopeless and alone. I was silently screaming in an empty room. Why won't anyone help me?

Hope and healing began FINALLY when I fled here to Asheville with my family. I do not know where I found the courage to call Helpmate's hotline after being turned away so many times elsewhere. But I did and the person who answered the phone patiently waited as I couldn't speak through the tears and devastating emotions that threatened to swamp me. She asked me if I was safe. She immediately arranged to connect me with an amazing, compassionate counselor at Helpmate who has reminded me of the strength that I have within me, who has validated my feelings of loss, anger, sadness and frustration and who has provided me with information on community resources here and continues to support my choices as she walks with me in this healing part of my journey. I do not know where I would be now without Helpmate's staff. I have become part of their survivor's advocacy group, Voices in Action, and it feels empowering to join with others to raise awareness and build a community of survivor's voices. They see my struggle and celebrate my progress. They value my voice and encourage me to use it to make a resounding, lasting impact on systems that do not support us. I will no longer simply survive domestic violence and rape, I choose to be a warrior against.

If you ever find yourself trusted enough to connect with victim fighting to survive, please use these words that offer support and hope…. The words that I heard from the right person, at the right time when I had the courage to keep asking...

"I am so sorry that this happened to you. It takes courage for you to share all of this with me. I will do what I can to help. What do you need? Are you safe? This isn't my area of expertise, but I will find out who will be the best person to help you. You are not responsible for someone else's choices. Do you want to talk about it? Or we can just sit together and you will know that I am here with you. I know that the legal system is overwhelming and the laws do not seem to protect you. I see that you are devastated. I see that you are confused and looking for answers. I see that you are doing the best that you can given the circumstances. I believe you. I see you."

I can tell you that now with the help of compassionate, trauma informed people and really, really hard work , I can say these words with confidence...

I am brave. I know myself and my situation better than anyone else. I am your protective mother. I am your sister in this fight. I am your independent daughter. I am resilient. I am hopeful. I am strong. I am an active and outspoken advocate. I am a survivor of Domestic Violence. I am a Warrior. I am YOU.